Transcending Winter
by Rookie571
Summary: A cataclysmic ice age in the far distant future devastatingly brings humanity to it's very knees. Not soon after, war breaks out over who gets to control what was left of the rapidly freezing planet. And at the very peak of that deadly conflict, a weary soldier suddenly discovers something unexpected, which horribly goes against everything he thought he already knew in the world.
1. Foreword

_Hey, fellas!_

 _I'm not too particularly great with writing forewords (or even fanfics for that matter) so please just bear with me._

 _Anyway, a quick heads-up right before you read the first chapter of my story._

 _First off, its set when Ciri and_ _Avallac'h_ _were trying to escape the Wild Hunt's relentless pursuit by travelling via awesome portals through space and time._

 _And after traversing through multiple worlds and universes, they had somehow managed to land in the far too distant future, specifically during the mid-twenty-second century. In 2140, to be exact. Where a new ice age had just popped out of nowhere, and war was being waged by the remaining powers that were still left standing._

 _If all of you had played the game as I have, you'd have noticed that just right after when Ciri and Geralt finally reunited in that awesome scene (where there were hugs all around and all dem ridiculous feels) they sat down next to a fireplace and talked about a lot of things. One of them in particular was when Ciri had visited the future, talking about how people waged wars over vast distances, used metallic helmets for protection, had real-time vid-conferencing that were like the megascopes in the game, and that everyone had their own flying ship._

 _I think she also mentioned staying there for almost half a year with_ _Avallac'h. And that's about as far as official canon goes._

 _So, basically, what I'm doing is that I'm mixing two games in this particular story. That of Witcher 3 (obviously) and also that of Battlefield 2142. The reason why I chose the setting_ _of the latter was that it made in sense (for me at least) in how it plays out in the ending of Witcher 3. You know what I'm talking about, where Ciri was going through that pulsating portal thingy to stop the White Frost or whatever from taking over the world/s. I'm just paraphrasing here as I go because I honestly forgot how it actually goes, so forgive the laziness. Anyhow, the setting in the Battlefield game was also that of a world being slowly engulfed in ice because of the new ice age, so I figured, "hey, why the fuck not?"_

 _To better understand how the Battlefield 2142 setting goes, I would most definitely recommend you go to YouTube and watch the "Battlefield 2142 Launch Trailer". It will mostly help you appreciate the thing of which I am trying to attempt._

 _Technically, this is a crossover. But it's sort of attempting to go along with canon, so that's why I didn't put it in the crossover category. Hopefully you guys won't mind._

 _Also, special mention goes to GreaterGoodIreland. Yes, as in the country with Guinness and leprechauns, for actually pulling off a story/stories based on BF2142 and making it insanely awesome to read. He actually inspired me to write this thing because of it, so I urge you read his work. Keep on doing the good work, bro._

 _Anyways, here's my story, enjoy._


	2. The Very Best of Modern Times

**Gentle Reminder: Watch the Battlefield 2142 Launch trailer on YouTube to better**

 **understand the setting of this story. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

 **Grid Papa-Bravo 9-0-4-3-7 / Berlin, Germany**

 **August 2140**

"— _our sectors have been compromised!"_ the voice screamed in his helmet's built-in speakers, terrified. _"We're not sure how long we can hold, over!"_

"— _this is Delta Six,"_ another voice chimed in, _"we cannot last with this many hostile elements within our unguarded flanks, we are withdrawing further west of the Allee der Kosmonauten and_ — _"_

"— _Packers on the right flank! I say again, we have hostile PAC armored elements breaking through our AO! We cannot hold this position_ — _"_

"— _is Hotel Four-Actual, we are combat ineffective at this time. Platoon strength down to three men, including myself. Please advise, over."_

"— _they're fucking everywhere! Broken Arrow! I say again, Broken Arrow! Tell those fucking fighter jocks to drop those cluster munitions on our CP, now!"_

It didn't take long before he finally switched off the crowded frequency all while shaking his head, unable to hear any of it much further without losing what was left of his crumbling faith. The radio transmissions, which were practically fighting over one another on the tactical mil-net, had made one thing abundantly clear to everyone who was listening in.

This battle was hopelessly and unequivocally lost. In every sense of the word.

Berlin—the capital of the great and mighty European Union, and the last bastion of freedom from what was left of the ever freezing free world—was on the brink of total fucking collapse. It's defending forces shattered, outnumbered, and supremely outgunned on all sides by a cunning and relentless enemy.

The Pan-Asian Coalition, a loose confederacy of heavily militarized Eurasian states east of Poland, was on the verge of its greatest achievement since its unfortunate founding thirty years ago. And with them pouring more men and material unto the breech than anyone else in this miserable fucking war, victory was most definitely assured for them.

What with entire line companies utterly wiped out, commanding officers incapacitated at the shittiest time, and enemy forces thoroughly advancing in an unprecedented degree; at this rate, it was already fucking guaranteed to happen anyway.

As of right this moment though, everything east of Biesdorf was now under complete PAC control. And based on reports he just heard from the collapsing mil-net earlier, it wouldn't take long now before the thundering juggernaut, that was the mobile strike regiments of the PAC's Northern Command Group, would overrun all of them in the blink of a fucking eye.

Such was the nature of contemporary warfare.

And whoever said anything about war being hell, well, he had completely understated it in this case, whoever he was. And had never fought in Berlin in these atrocious conditions.

Though, thinking about it, urban combat in hell wouldn't be too remotely bad; considering that it was really warm and toasty down there compared to fighting in this giant city, with death and destruction raining like the actual snow here all around, and in the middle of the worst developing ice age in modern recorded history.

Yes, ice age. As in the fact that half of the world was already covered in huge tracts of ice, with more of it coming their way to downright freeze everything into big, unappetizing popsicles.

That ice age.

And, are him and the rest of the freezing population doing everything in their power? To completely stave off the extinction of humanity in this dire crisis?

Why, yes, of course.

Sort of.

By fighting a big ass world war, spanning from continental Europe, the Mediterranean, and all along Northern Africa.

Because, the way world leaders had figured it, the only way to save humanity was by waging high-intensity combat and killing off every single hostile human being in sight. All the while repurposing dwindling resources into a fruitless endeavor, instead of making them last with conservation efforts in the long run.

No, the irony was not lost on him. And yes, he also realized that with the ice age and World War Three just raging heavily on the corner next to the European version of a Costco, mankind in general didn't have a chance in hell—even though it was warm—and was most definitely screwed. And not in a good way.

 _What the hell is the point of all this, then?_ Corporal Alexander—though he was acting in capacity as a sergeant—Muller thought as he stared at the destruction through the shattered polycarbonate window inside an abandoned bake shop.

A few kilometers away from him, he spotted a flight of PAC gunships swoop in from cruising altitude, then drop their ordinance unto a column of retreating armored vehicles driving along the main road. Explosions from the cluster munitions tore everything within their blast radii with those hyper-lethal little bomblets that the ordnance was known to carry. And based on the extent of the damage he was seeing first-hand, he doubt that anyone was left alive out of that battered convoy of thirteen vehicles.

 _All this senseless killing, how is this supposed to resolve anything?_

True, it was the PAC that had started the war in the first place, mostly because the continually advancing ice shelf had already decimated what was left of their arable and accommodating holdings. And yes, they could have still continued negotiations in Vienna and eventually find a suitable compromise between the six remaining superpowers, all the while hopefully getting what they want out of it in the end.

But was instigating a full-blown war really necessary?

Had they even thought about the long-term repercussions of waging such a conflict?

Much less their chances of actually fighting against another superpower under these horrible circumstances, e.g., the ice age and the end of mankind as they know it?

Well, whatever their reasons were, with the constant speed and thoroughness of the advance of their highly-trained and highly-mobile strike forces so far, they sure as hell we're already on their way to winning this godforsaken war.

And, as of now at least, it barely even lasted a year.

Figures. So much for trying to rid the world of oppression and ensuring freedom for all.

"…S-Sergeant?" an uncertain voice broke him out of his trance and his ever-pessimistic view of the world he was currently living in. Looking left, he saw a younger soldier he barely knew, just observing at him as if he knew what to do for them next.

"What is it?" Muller replied tiredly and curtly, though his hi-tech helmet's built-in audio pick-ups automatically transitioned it into a clear and effective speech. Technology wasn't even allowing him to sound tired anymore, as was his right.

"Um, what are we going to do now, Sergeant?"

"What do you mean?" he eyed the other soldier warily with narrowed eyes. "And no, I'm not a sergeant, kid. I'm a grade below that. Get your shit right."

"Oh, b-b-but you were commanding a squad a while back." the kid stammered. "And I—I thought—"

"Get to the fucking point, kid. The rest of us aren't getting any younger, what with the war and all."

The kid looked dejected, and shifted his gaze on the ground below that they were standing on, finding the shattered pieces of the polycarbonate window more interesting than looking at Muller's own hazel eyes.

He sighed. He really ought to take it easy on the kid, it wasn't the doe-eyed little bastard's fault that the war was raging all around them.

Or was it? Who the fuck knows. At this point, he really didn't care anymore other than trying to survive this war and live off the rest of his life in obscured peace.

If only he could actually live that long.

"First battle?"

The kid's head instantly perked up, surprised at the unexpected turn of their conversation. Damn, they really had to be nicer to these new recruits.

"Y-Y-Yes, sergea—I mean, corporal! Sir!"

"How's it going so far?"

"Um, I'm…really…I'm really, scared. Sir." the kid replied tender honesty. "I…I think I might've pissed myself earlier when those Titans started blasting the city, I'm not sure."

Muller nodded in understanding at what the kid meant, who was referring to the colossal, floating airborne carriers both sides had just started using to ferry troops, vehicles and equipment all along the forward edge of the battle area. And also, on occasion, use their massive guns on potential military targets to bombard the living hell out of it with sickening ease. In this case, the great—or what was once great—city of Berlin.

"Yeah, those are never really pleasant." the corporal sagely said, then continued. "What unit were you in?"

"Company D, sir. Uh, One-Thirty-Second Mobile Infantry."

"Wait, _what_?" Muller did a double take. "The One-Three-Two? Seriously?"

The kid just nodded mutely. And Muller's gut suddenly wrenched and felt icy.

"Fuck me."

The 132nd Mobile Infantry Battalion, along with a hodge-podge of other mixed elements that were currently attached to the 126th and 129th, was supposed to be the reserve force in the city's desperate defense. It was agreed by divisional command that under no circumstances were they to be deployed unless the city was already in danger of being completely overrun by hostile PAC forces. If they were already being deployed, then…

There really wasn't any doubt about it anymore.

The city _was_ lost.

Yes, he already knew deep in his heart that Berlin would fall, sooner or later. But, having finally confirmed it, it didn't lessen any of his deeply seated fears. At all. Not one damned bit.

He'd be lying to himself if he hadn't hoped that his Division commander, who everyone knew by now was one of the greatest generals the EU had ever produced, would come up with another one of his hare-brained miraculous plans to save them at the last moment.

Who knows, maybe it might turn the tide once more?

It had never failed them before.

Just like when he did at Belgrade, when he spoofed an entire PAC division and its CO into thinking it was up against a greater force. When it reality, it was just facing a severely understrength battalion and used the bluff to fall back into friendly lines.

Or when they were trapped in Warsaw, with Packers on all sides and death just patiently waiting as they got cut off from the rest of the corps when enemy forces bum-rushed with hover tanks and advanced battle walkers. The crazy bastard had actually ordered them into a frontal assault against a superior force. And it had worked! It shouldn't have worked, but it did. If it was because of an overconfident enemy commander, or the time-honored tradition of doing a surprise attack at an unsuspecting foe, no one knows. But what they did know was that it worked.

And it had never failed them before.

Muller grimaced, feeling his slight optimism at his situation instantly diminish as reality set in, feeling like a well-worn glove.

If he was being entirely honest with himself, it seemed like there wasn't any miracle left on Earth capable of changing the tide of battle here. It was common sense to anyone if the reserves were used, and it hadn't blunted the enemy's offensive momentum and they still kept on advancing, logic would dictate that the defense had failed in plugging the breach in the perimeter.

And if PAC forces still kept on coming, then that only meant one rational choice of action left for all of them to undertake.

Retreat.

Or tactical withdrawal, or falling back, or whatever else people usually call running away in the opposite direction.

In hindsight, he really shouldn't be surprised by any of this. They've been doing nothing but retreat since the war had started. All the Packers ever did was advance relentlessly, and all the EU ever did back then—still does, actually—was delay the inevitable and stage rearguard actions in trying to stem the blitzkrieg that was the PAC assault.

Why had he started thinking differently?

Because this was Berlin? The capital of the European Union? That EU forces might actually halt the PAC for once because this was where their relentless wave was meant to be subdued? Their very own version of a Yorktown, or Thermopylae, Waterloo or even a Normandy?

Jesus fucking Christ, he really was an idiot. Who knew optimism would substitute karma in becoming such an annoying little bitch?

Yes, as much as he hated to admit it, Berlin was now gone. And they have to get out of here. Again. Though this time, they can't count on the higher-ups to help them along every step of the way.

He looked at the kid once again.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Private Keller Sorenson, sir."

He looked around at the battered bakeshop, finally taking notice of the other soldiers that were here with him since he first started setting up shop here an hour earlier, when their brief counterattack at a mechanized assault had somehow succeeded, giving them some much needed reprieve. Small miracles and all.

"How many of us are in here now, and how are they?"

"Uh, shouldn't you check that up with your helmet's NetBat system, sir?" Sorenson meekly suggested, talking about the Networked Battlefield system that was installed in their standard-issue combat helmets; which allowed each individual soldier to check up on the status of themselves and those around them, as well as receive sensor data and intel from numerous micro-antennae on their fully-integrated body suit and various assets respectively.

Even when Muller's face and head was entirely covered with the recon variant of said helmet, he narrowed his eyes on the young private. Right now his own NetBat system was currently rebooting, after having been knocked out of his ass from the intense shockwave out of a lethal round from a PAC electro-mag artillery piece earlier.

Of course he'd fucking check up on it. If the fucking thing _was actually working!_ That's why he was asking him. Who the hell was this boot to tell him what he already knew? The urge to just scream at him felt so damn right…

But instead of doing the natural thing and just plain bite the insolent little fucker's head off with righteous indignation, he took a calming breath and exhaled with barely restrained anger.

"It's broken." he simply stated.

At least the private had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Oh! I'm sorry, sir! I-I-I didn't realize! I thought—but of course you'd know—and—"

"Settle down, Sorenson. And relax. Take a deep breath, then give me the count."

Sorenson nodded, then did what he was told. After a few moments of winding down from the embarrassment, he proceeded with his report.

"I, uh, checked the NetBat system earlier to see how we were doing. We have about six men here in the storefront—w-which includes you and me. A little worse for wear, but they're alright I guess."

Muller nodded for him to continue.

"There's four guys in the back, sir. With varying levels of injury. Two of them have abdominal wounds from high velocity rifle rounds. So far they're stable, and the medics who treated them earlier already left to tend to other units. We have one with a shattered leg from an artillery round, the medics looked after him too, and…uh, another one…with a big hole in his chest. The medics…tried all they can for the guy, but…" Sorenson suddenly was gazing at something past Muller, eyes looking hollow and very far away as if reliving a very vivid memory.

"Private?"

The kid didn't respond at first. Just staring blankly at something behind the corporal's head. It took a second call for him to get the private out of his stupor.

"They told me that all they can do was make him comfortable…that, there wasn't anything else they can really do…"

"Is he….?"

"It wasn't really pretty to look at…sir."

Muller just nodded numbly at Sorenson and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Why don't you take a quick break for a bit?" he recommended with a soft tone. "You look exhausted, kid."

Well technically, every single one of them was exhausted after countless hours of constant fighting and repositioning after every major engagement. But this poor bastard looked as if he'd personally seen the very gates of Hell itself, and it obviously showed.

The thousand-yard stare Sorenson was currently sporting didn't help with any matters, either.

But, doing something the corporal hadn't expected, the kid just shook his head after less than three seconds of staring into oblivion. It was something.

"No, no, I'm alright, I'm alright." the private replied repeatedly. "I just got…lost for a bit. Sorry, sir."

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir. Again, I'm really sorry for earlier."

"Don't be, Private. It could've been worse." he reassured, then moved on. "Now, are you guys all from the One-Three-Two?"

Sorenson lethargically shook his head once.

"Negative, sir. I'm the only one from that unit, the rest of the guys here are from all over."

"Which units?"

"The two guys over there are from the One-Thirty-Eight," he pointed at a pair of soldiers standing guard near the entrance, their backs facing them, "then there's that sniper from the Division's reconnaissance element," Sorenson then directed his head at the recon soldier, who was slumping on the floor near the stall where the pastries were usually displayed, sniper rifle at his thighs and his head lolled back indicating that he was napping.

 _Which probably isn't a bad idea right about now._

He shook his head slightly and forced himself to focus. He had a job to do, damn it, which was to get him and this motley group of guys out of here, and by God he planned on getting it done. Here's hoping.

"What about that guy over there?" he pointed at the solider busily tinkering with what looked a Mitchell AV-18 quad missile launcher on top of a rectangular table. "And with the wounded guys at the back?"

"Oh, well, he's one of the engineers from the One-Twenty-Eight's demolition team, sir. The four guys are also from the same battalion as well, but were at differing line companies."

"Fuck, what a goddamn mess." Muller said noncommittally at the group before him.

"You got that right." the engineer meddling with the heavy anti-tank weapon agreed wholeheartedly with a roguish smile. "We're pretty much like a fucking fruit salad."

The corporal observed the man with a critical eye.

Same body suit as him, complete with the standard armor protection package of modular ceramic plating all over his torso, arms, and legs. He also had a standard small cylindrical battery pack on his solar plexus; which was needed to power his NetBat helmet's advanced features, his suit's internal temperature systems and the onboard sensor array. Coupled with a modern rucksack in his back, which he knew was filled to the brim with hi-tech tools and gadgets the EU engineers were famously known for, along with several ammo pouches on his abdomen and two unexpended missile pods dangling at his hips, which served as quick reloads for his heavy missile launcher.

In short he looked just like a standard EU combat engineer. Unremarkable in every way. Except for his two oversized armored shoulder pauldrons, where one had a combat knife strapped to it for easy access in close quarters combat situations.

And the other with three small chevron stripes etched on to it. Muller slightly smiled back at the man.

"Looks like you're in command here then, Sergeant."

The other man just snorted as he did the finishing touches on his tinkering and finally faced the corporal with his completely and undivided attention. Somewhat.

"Command? Hell, the only reason I got promoted was because I was good at two things: fixing stuff up when it needs to be, then blowing them to hell and back when…well, mostly because someone ordered me too, I guess."

"Aren't you the highest ranking soldier here?" the corporal asked, confused.

"Technically, I am. But you gotta understand, brother. I'm a hell of an engineer, and I take great pride of that fact. I'm even a decent soldier on a good day. But as a leader of men?" the engineer just let out a sincere laugh. "That, I am not."

"So, you wouldn't mind if I take command, then?"

"Oh hell, no." the combat engineer immediately replied after a quick shake of his head. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of you doing what you do best. And based on what I've seen earlier, you definitely know what you're doing."

Muller's smile wavered slightly.

Ah, yes. The engineer was, of course, denoting their crazy gambit at a counterattack beforehand that somehow—against all odds—had managed to succeed in bringing down a determined assault, from a full-sized PAC mechanized company no less, which had rumbled down the B5 federal highway just on the eastern outskirts of Biesdorf itself.

Two hundred and fifty men _with infantry fighting vehicles_ , arrayed against a sorry bunch of EU regulars from five separate units that numbered to about less than a hundred. Maybe eighty-five? He wasn't particularly sure. Everything about what happened earlier was just a blur, as it all went too fast for him to follow each distinctive and significant event.

The only definitive thing he knew about the skirmish was that for some reason, him and the rest of the ad-hoc formation that a passing colonel had managed to scrounge from the mass of retreating EU soldiers, had done the unexpected. They held them off. As in, they actually held their ground against the rampaging Packers, even for just a little while.

But the cost?

From the eighty-five to maybe almost a hundred able-bodied men that the ballsy colonel had fared in gathering, only ten of them barely accomplished in getting out of there alive. Sans said ballsy colonel, who died being peppered from a retreating IFV's large caliber autocannon.

It was…plain horrible seeing all those bodies, being liberally littered everywhere in sight. The cold, vicious weather actually contributing to common decency for once, by staving off what could've been a harsh smelling makeshift graveyard, for the dead that had just laid there when they feel.

The cold also helped with the absence of scavenging vultures and crows, for whatever good that was worth.

And all that rueful contemplation only lasted a brief second as Muller completely recovered from the engineer's words.

"Well," he offered with a solemn tone, "I guess I just got lucky."

The combat engineer had seemed to sense the corporal's change in demeanor, and had been quick to give out a considerate smile and nod, right before immediately throwing away his playful attitude from earlier.

"I suppose we all were, then. But just barely."

"Yeah, just barely." Muller agreed just before setting his sight on the raging battle beyond him once again.

Yep, this war was definitely far from over.


End file.
